Holmes' Home for the Homeless
by Flibbertigibet
Summary: John had never been one of the luckiest of people, but his life really seemed to take a turn since Afghanistan. Living on the streets was not something he struggled with, but when the people he comes into contact with start turning up dead, it becomes a lot more challenging. Who else could he turn to but a certain consulting detective?
1. Chapter 1

This idea started off really sweet, and quickly became a bit dark. Warnings for very brief descriptions of gore and a panic attack within the first couple of paragraphs. Also, please note the Wiggins in this story is not the one that appears in the series. I've based him off the one from the novels, a homeless child and leader of the "Baker Street Irregulars" i.e. the homeless network.

I know this is all very unlikely to happen, but go with me.

* * *

As a surgeon and a soldier John was no stranger to blood and gore, but the sight that greeted him churned his stomach and brought a cold sweat over his skin. The lady John had kindly helped carry her shopping home when her bags had broken now lay face up in a pool of her own blood. Her skin was icy white with the dark purple patches of lividity beginning to appear on her legs. The blood had long since congealed, with a tacky quality and a darker brown edge where it had begun to dry.

She starred unseeingly upwards, dark eyes clouded over and bloodshot. Her chest had been neatly sliced open, the flap of skin and breast tissue hanging over her side. Her heart had been carved out and lay next to her in its own puddle of blood.

A thick metallic smell permeated the room clogging John's nose and filling his lungs to such an extent he could almost taste the iron on his tongue.

A shock of pain ran down John's leg and very suddenly it was no longer iron he could taste but sand. His vision narrowed and his heart pounded. His breath came in short gasps, his lungs no longer cooperating, and in that moment he felt like he was going to die.

Stumbling backwards John ran from the flat and then through the street, uncaring of the pain in his leg. He finally paused in an alleyway, sinking to the ground, a hand gripped in his hair. Logically John knew he had experienced a flashback, but the anxiety and fear coursing through him was very much real.

He struggled for several minutes to force air into his lungs, to put out the fire that had begun in his chest. He tried to focus on regaining a regular rhythm and, although difficult, eventually he felt his chest unclench and he could breathe again, his heart no longer trying to beat its way out his chest.

John grit his teeth. He was sweaty and ill and bone tired but more than anything he was irritated with himself. He had been doing so well but the scene he had walked in on was vaguely similar to one he experienced in Afghanistan and it cut right through his defences.

He sighed heavily and thunked his head against the wall behind him, staring upwards. Now that he had mostly recovered he knew he had to go back to call the police. There was no getting around that.

John got shakily to his feet, the tremor in his hand in full force along with the pain in his leg. His cane was still gripped in his hand and he leant on it heavily, limping his way back towards the building he had fled.

When John got closer however, it became clear that someone had already done the job. Several flashing police cars and an ambulance stood outside, police officers already cornering off the area with yellow tape.

A small weight seemed to lift off his shoulders and he was glad to turn around and walk away. It wasn't until he was halfway back to his recent sleeping place that a thought caught him off guard.

They would think it was him.

Not only was he in the flat just before the time of death but he had also returned and was most likely seen running away.

His blood ran cold for the second time that day and John cursed whatever deity he had managed to piss off. Being accused of murder was really the last thing he needed. The worry ate at him as he walked the rest of the way back. When he reached the familiar tunnel he had been using for the past several days dropped to the ground and buried his face in his hands.

The killer hand probably left some of their own evidence but John would definitely be their first port of call. A strange homeless man seen running away from the scene of the crime? Suspicious didn't half cover it.

John pressed the palm of his hands into his eyelids until he saw stars. Who knows, they might bloody well be able to pin the whole thing on him.

"Oi, what's up Doc?" A voice called from in front of him. John raised his head and narrowed his eyes. He was very much not in the mood for whatever Wiggins wanted to joke around about now.

Wiggins held out his hands, placating. He knew what John was capable of when angry, especially with that cane of his. No one messed with the homeless when John Watson was about.

"Ah. Serious is it?" He took a seat next to John, "You tell me what's the matter and I'll see if I can 'elp."

John sighed. The whole situation was ridiculous. There was no doubt in his mind that his life had gone absolutely to shit since the army.

"I'm probably going to get done for murder."

Wiggins' eyes opened comically and his mouth dropped open. "You didn't actually go kill one o' those guys from before did ya?"

John rolled his eyes. "Of course not. I was just there right before the murder."

"And the police'll think it was you?"

John shrugged. Wiggins 'hm'ed and rubbed the scruff on his chin thoughtfully.

Wiggins was one of the youngest John had met sleeping rough, he'd met him after he'd got a few good cuts and scrapes falling down some stairs drunk. John had obviously patched him up and somehow gained an annoying presence that wouldn't leave him alone like the others.

With the NHS it wasn't strictly necessary to carry around a first aid kit but in John's experience people were often too stubborn or mentally unstable to seek out help. So he did what he could, making sure his kit was always fully stocked.

"I might know a bloke that could 'elp. Names Sherlock 'olmes. You 'eard of him?"

John made a face. He had heard several people talk about this 'Sherlock Holmes' but he seemed more like a fictional character than a real life person.

"Kind of."

Wiggins grinned, tapping the side of his nose and pointing towards John, "Don't you worry Doc, he'll 'ave this mess sorted in no time."

* * *

While getting the man's address was simple, Wiggins having been here several times, locating the man himself was more of a challenge. He was supposedly 'on a case' which apparently meant he could be anywhere in London at any given moment.

After talking to several people in Wiggins' 'network', they eventually found the address of the crime scene he was attending. At this point Wiggins left John to it, sending him off with a smile and a clap on the back. Sometimes John really resented his height.

Armed with only the vague description of 'tall, posh, with a long coat' John was incredibly thankful when he heard a voice shouting "Sherlock! Sherlock, wait! Come back here!" as he approached the scene, a tall figure quickly striding away.

"Excuse me!" John called, limping quickly after his retreating back. "Excuse me! Sherlock Holmes?"

The man didn't turn around but stopped at the main road to hail a taxi and John managed to catch up. He was indeed dressed in clothes worth a hundred times John's own person, and clad in a long blue great coat.

"Sherlock Holmes? Sorry, I…uh, wa-"

"I don't have time for your idiotic stuttering." He said, cutting John off. A taxi pulled up next to them and the man leapt inside, closing the door on John. The car pulled away, leaving John standing dumbfounded on the pavement.

"Right." Well, that was a complete waste of time.

Having been on the streets for a couple months now, John was fairly used to the bad reactions people can have towards the homeless, but he had really started to place a lot of hope in this 'Sherlock Holmes' and his reaction was really quite disheartening.

John took a deep breath.

"Right."

He tapped his cane on the ground a few times and walked down the road. Usually he would have gone back or sat somewhere to collect some money, but both of those increased his chance of running into Wiggins and that wasn't something he really felt like doing. He had quite enough on his mind without someone else hanging around and questioning how meeting Sherlock Holmes had gone.

He walked at a quick pace. He was still in the same situation he was in several hours ago with no clue what to do. There wasn't much he could do, John had to admit, other than to just wait and see what happened, but it was the helplessness that frustrated him the most.

He could always go to Harry, who was a fairly decent lawyer when she wasn't drunk off her arse, but that was a spectacularly bad idea. Not only had they not seen each other since he had first arrived back, she had no idea that John was not currently still living in a bedsit, or any kind of house really.

Partially it was due to stubbornness that he hadn't gone to her at first, that and her drinking problem which he had no desire to deal with. John wasn't safe to be around other people for extended periods of time. He felt more comfortable living the way he was. He felt less isolated, didn't pose a threat to anyone he cared about, and he was in control of where his life was heading. Which considering was nowhere, it wasn't that hard.

Everything was a bit less dull and grey, and he felt like he had a purpose, helping out those he met when he could.

It took John awhile to realise just how long he had been walking. It was now dark, his leg pained him considerably and the weight of his rucksack seemed to have increased by a few stone.

He shifted his bag a bit and changed his grip on his cane, slowing down his pace. The evening crowd was in full force, the streets heaving with commuters and last minute shoppers. The dirty smell of London and exhaust fumes was overwhelmed by the smells of high end restaurants and greasy kebab shops wafting through the air as most began to think about dinner. John's stomach grumbled and he made the executive decision to return for the small stash of things he had hidden.

He took a shortcut, branching off the main road and walking through a maze of side streets in a residential area. He was just passing through a small alleyway next to a set of houses when two men ran past in front of him. It seemed that one had been chasing the other and had manged to corner him against a fence nearby.

The cornered man flashed a wicked grin and there was a glint of a knife, and John was moving. Using his cane he knocked the feet out from under the taller one, sending him crashing to the ground and the knife stabbed the air instead of his middle. John quickly got to work on the one with the knife who now looked a bit stunned and confused, knocking the weapon out his hands and bringing him down next to the first man, although a bit harder than planned, knocking him out.

John dusted himself off a bit and turned to the man who he had saved. He was still sitting on his arse, staring at John with a look of rapt fascination.

John offered him his hand.

"Sorry about that mate. Thought it better than a knife to the gut."

"Quite" was the deep baritone reply. He blinked and seemed to collect himself, taking John's hand and helping himself up. "Odd to find someone such as yourself in this part of London. Afghanistan?...Or was it Iraq?"

"What?"

The man grinned, shaking John's hand that was still in his grasp.

"Sherlock Holmes."

John froze. What? The man he had met earlier had been wearing a bespoke suit and was immaculately groomed, but the man before him now…looked homeless. His clothes were ratty and old, his hands and face covered in dirt and his hair a mess. But if John looked closely his face still had the same sharp cheekbones from before. And he was still bloody tall.

"John Watson." He replied automatically, letting the man's hand go. "Ah, Mr. Holmes, I've actually been meaning to talk to you."

"Sherlock, please." He replied, pulling out a mobile from somewhere, and began to text furiously.

It was like night and day comparing this meeting to their last and John didn't really know how to respond. He had so rarely had a regular conversation with someone who wasn't homeless these last few months and he was a bit dazed.

"Well?" Sherlock prompted, glancing up at John from his phone.

"Well what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Clearly you wanted to consult me for a reason. What is it?"

"Oh. Oh! I...might get accused for a murder I didn't commit. I was told you may be able to help me out."

"Hm. I don't have time for that now" he said, pocketing his phone. "It seems there was a second culprit I was previously unaware of and I need to locate him before he does something dramatic like flee the country."

Well, that was just John's luck.

"But if you wait at 23 Montagu Street I will see what I can do after I finish this case. Provided of course the murder isn't too pedestrian."

Did people usually describe murder as pedestrian?

"Alright." John replied, it wasn't like he had much else to do.

Sherlock span around and began walking away, leaving John with his unconscious would-be-attacker. He got a few strides in before he turned back.

"Thanks for that by the way" he said, gesturing to the man at John's feet. "It was…well, good."

John felt a grin tug at his lips.

"No problem. You just going to leave him here?"

"Someone will be round shortly to collect him." He waved dismissively and carried on walking.

John shook his head and glanced down at the body. He should probably check the man for a concussion, but if someone was coming soon he didn't have much motivation to.

He sighed, adjusting his bag and cane again in preparation for the long trek to Montagu Street.


	2. Chapter 2

23 Montagu Street, as it turned out, was a large brick building, with black lettering proclaiming 'Holmes' Home for the Homeless' embossed on the front. Although the outside looked old, from what John could see the inside was renovated and fairly modern. There were only a few people milling about, both inside and out and John felt comfortable walking through the doors.

Inside he was faced with a small reception-like area, a lady behind a desk typing away at a computer. John hesitated and she gestured him over.

"You look a bit lost. Are you here to volunteer?" She asked cheerfully.

People often tended to mistake John as not being homeless. One thing his drilled in cleanliness routines came in useful for…excepting for begging.

"Ah, well no I-"

"Don't worry if you haven't been here before", she interrupted. "There's a day centre round to the left that serves breakfast and dinner every day other than Sunday when breakfast and lunch are served. Hot and cold drinks are served all day. There's a cold weather shelter further to the left which has bedding which you can borrow, and bathrooms and showers off from that. We do have rooms on site but all of those are unfortunately taken at the moment."

John nodded along, amazed at how catering this place was, and slightly disturbed by her eerily cheery disposition.

"Some therapy is available for drug and alcohol addictions, and other advise available from visiting social workers, the days they're here each week will be posted on the notice board just there" she pointed towards the wall to the right of the reception area. "Today there's a couple of visiting GPs who you can see in a room off from the day centre, although there's likely to be a fairly long cue. " She smiled sunnily at him, obviously waiting for him to respond, but John honestly wasn't sure what there was for him to say.

"Okay, well come back if you have any questions!"

John thanked her and edged away, walking towards where she had indicated the day centre was. He walked through into what looked like a cafeteria, a large number of benches, chairs and tables placed around the room with food being served at one end. There were a hefty number of people scattered about which made John a bit anxious, but his stomach rumbled appreciatively to the smell of food and he made his way through the room, grabbing a plate and tray.

The food was simple, beef stew and rice, but it was warm and smelt heavenly. John managed to find a small empty table and tucked in hungrily. He wasn't starving, like some of the others, but there were a few meals he had had to skip here and there when money was just too tight or he'd spent the last of it on medical supplies instead. He'd lost a few pounds and his jumpers hung off him more than they had, but he wasn't unhealthily thin by any stretch.

After he had finished he placed his tray on the racks at the side of the room and went up to grab a polystyrene cup of tea. Taking a sip he surprisingly found it wasn't entirely unpleasant. Probably the best cup of tea he'd had in a while.

He sat back down at the table from before, casually sipping at his tea and observing the people around him. There seemed to be a general mood of good cheer which was fairly different to the other day centres John had visited around London. John watched as a young women in business clothes sat down not far from him, clutching a cup not unlike his own like a lifeline, clearly exhausted.

She was fairly pretty, with neat brown hair and a smattering of makeup which highlighted her eyes. If John had to take a guess, he would have probably said she was one of the visiting GPs. She was noticeably not homeless and none of the other volunteers had half the black circles she had under her eyes.

John made his way over. She saw his approach, glancing up from her cup, and smiled thinly at him.

"I'm sorry, I'll be back to checking patients in a bit, but I'm on a break at the minute."

"Oh, I can see that, sorry. I just thought I'd come over and ask if you needed any help checking over some people? I'm a trained doctor."

She seemed to glance sideways at him. Opening her mouth before shutting it again, looking considering.

"…alright I guess. I could really use some extra hands. Though I'd have to watch you with the first couple to see if you're actually capable."

Perhaps a bit insulting, but John understood where she was coming from.

"Fair enough. Wouldn't want someone who didn't know their malleus from their malleolus going round pretending to diagnose patients." She smiled, a bit more warmly than before, and John sat down opposite her.

"John Watson." He said, holding out his hand.

"Sarah Sawyer." They shook and each took a sip of their drinks. "So…where did you train?"

"In London actually. Barts. Took a job with the army to pay off the debts." John grinned ruefully, "Not that that did much help in the end."

Sarah looked sympathetic and glanced down at her tea, fidgeting with the rim.

John cleared his throat, "What made you volunteer to work here?"

"Oh, Sherlock Holmes, the guy that owns this place helped me out a while back. Someone kept stealing the anaesthetics we kept at the surgery and he helped find the culprit. Well, when I say helped…he actually loudly told the man to his face, along with some other sordid details, because he apparently hadn't done a 'satisfactory' job stitching up his arm. His face was rather hilarious looking back." She chuckled. "But it really did help me out and this seemed like a good cause so…" She said, shrugging.

"I'm sure they appreciate it" John smiled, gesturing to the others in the room.

Sarah smiled in return.

The conversation flowed easily after that and both soon found themselves with empty cups and not long afterwards in a large room set out exactly like a doctor's surgery, with a curtain split down the middle for two different work stations. The room was bright and orderly with a heavy smell of antiseptic that instantly made John feel more at ease.

"Thank you for helping with this. There was meant to be another Doctor volunteering this evening but she called in sick at the last minute, and now I'm a bit rushed off my feet."

John wondered into the room, placing his backpack and cane under the desk at the far side and shedding a few of his layers. Sarah showed him where all the medical equipment was, and after observing him with the first couple of patients they began to work through the long line of patients. Mostly it was just infections and colds, which while simple to treat were infinitely more worrying for people living on the street. There was one pregnant mother which John was particularly concerned about but there wasn't much he could do for her other than a basic check-up and a few tips of advice.

Working in tandem they managed to finish off the majority of patients fairly quickly and it wasn't long before all that was left was to pack up. John put his backpack back on and picked up his cane and coat. He intended to stay in the cold weather shelter tonight, if it wasn't too busy, considering Sherlock hadn't turned up yet. If he even remembered.

"Ah, John, just before you go I wanted to thank you. You really helped me out."

"No problem. Really. It was nice to…you know, get back into the swing of things."

"I wanted to bring that up actually. There's a part time opening at the surgery I work at and I'd like to offer you the position. Of course we'd have to do a background check first, but I've seen you work and I know you're more than capable and could do a good job."

John's mouth dropped open a bit. He honestly didn't expect to walk away from this encounter with more than a thank you, let alone a paying job. He felt his chest constrict and his head felt a little lighter. A weight settled in his stomach and he swallowed.

"Ah, this isn't pity or charity" she said hurriedly. "I saw from your work today that you'd be someone I'd want to hire. It was frankly better than an interview could ever be." She still looked a bit nervous as if she'd offended him.

"Oh. No. Don't worry. I didn't think that. I…" He clenched his hand a few times. "I just don't think that'd be…the right thing for me." He said to the wall over Sarah's shoulder. His heart had begun to beat a bit strongly.

"…alright. But if you change your mind, here's the address of the surgery." She handed John a card from her handbag, clicked it shut and left the room.

John stood there for a while holding the card without really looking at it. It would improve his life drastically if he could get a steady job like this, but he couldn't do it. The mere thought made his hands clammy and shake, and his leg twinge. He wasn't afraid of the work or the responsibility. That would be absurd. He just couldn't cope with the expectations. The expectation that he'd be a hundred percent in control of himself all the time. That he be safe to be around. That he wouldn't freak out at something otherwise ordinary to someone else.

Long hours, stress and tough scenarios he could cope with. It was the mundane that terrified him.

Eventually he sighed and placed the card into his pocket. Switching off the lights he made his way back towards the reception and then the cold weather shelter the lady had indicated to him several hours ago. Inside there was an exceedingly large room with many beds set out, most of which had already been taken. He wondered over to an unoccupied one nearby, probably free because of the draft from the door but John didn't mind. The bed already had a pillow and there were blankets available at one end of the room but John unrolled his sleeping bag. Kicking off his shoes and placing them with his other things under the bed, he got into the bag and zipped himself up.

John often slept on hard ground in the cold so it should have been easy for him to get comfortable. The room was heated, the lights dimmed, and the bed was miles ahead of anything he had expected, but he was constantly aware of the people around him. There were quiet mutterings, coughs, sneezes, snores and shuffling, and a distinct odour of _people_ hung about the room. It reminded him a lot of his barracks in the army, which wasn't necessarily a good thing.

Although it took him several hours, eventually the tiredness won out and his eyes slipped shut.

He was awoken quite abruptly the next morning by a women who had accidently bumped into his bed frame. It was hard to tell who was more surprised, the women who found her arm suddenly gripped roughly by the man who had been sleeping soundly or John who open his eyes to find a startled women gripped in his hands.

He hastily apologised and let her go, and she walked away at the quick pace of someone who was clearly trying to get away without looking obvious.

John groaned and rubbed his hands across his face. Great start to the day. He got up from the bed and stretched, his back in a much better position than it was yesterday. He put his shoes back on and rolled up his sleeping bag, and fishing out all his things from under the bed, he made his way back to the day centre.

They were luckily still serving breakfast and John snagged himself a plate of toast, munching quite contently at what was quickly becoming his usual table. Hopefully Sherlock would arrive before he got too comfortable here.

It was on his way back to table after having deposited his empty plate that he thought he heard his name being called from somewhere near the back of the room. At the second time, John turned around and was faced with one of the volunteers. A short, podgy man with dark hair and glasses who looked at him expectantly.

"Mike? Mike Stamford? We were at Barts together."

John's blood froze in his veins. He hadn't run into anyone he even vaguely knew while he had been homeless and was decidedly unprepared for such an interaction.

"Yes, sorry, yes Mike." He shook the offered hand. "Hello, hi."

"Yeah I know, I got fat." Mike said good-naturedly.

"No" He could remember Mike being a bit skinnier, but he couldn't have honestly cared less at that moment.

"Anyway, are you volunteering here? I thought you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?"

Well that was a loaded question. What should he address first?

"…I got shot."

There was an awkward silence for a few beats, where Mikes face dropped and he looked both sympathetic and lost as to what to say. In for a penny, in for a pound.

"I'm also not volunteering here."

His hands felt clammy and his stomach churned as he waited for Mike's reaction. At first he looked confused but then his eyes widened as he realised what that meant.

"Ah…well, I'm due for a break anyway, want to grab a cup of coffee?"

John let go of the breath he'd been holding, a small smile making its way onto his face.

"I'm still more of a tea drinker" John said, playing on an old inside joke.

"Still a posh git then?" They both chuckled.

With the awkwardness somewhat dissipated they grabbed their drinks and returned to the table John had claimed with his stuff.

"So what brings you here? No offence, but you never seemed the sort to volunteer in your spare time." John asked, genuinely curious.

Mike huffed a laugh. "Not usually. I'm still at Barts. Teaching now. But Sherlock Holmes often turns up in the labs to do his experiments. He's not a student but it's hard to stop Holmes from doing anything" Mike grinned conspiratorially. "He inadvertently got me a promotion after he uncovered my superior's…criminal activities. I thought this would be a good way to repay him."

"I'm starting to sense a pattern here. Do all the volunteers owe Sherlock Holmes in some way?"

"It's not the say they all like him. He can be a bit…difficult. But I think we can all recognise when he's done us a good turn, even accidentally. And no one can say helping the homeless isn't a good cause."

"Do you know why he started this place? He seemed kind of standoffish when I met him. Not really the…altruistic type."

"Oh, well…" Mike glanced briefly over John's shoulder, "speak of the devil."

"Ah Mike. Enjoyed your holiday to the Maldives I see."

"It _was_ rather nice, thank you."

"Hm." Sherlock seemed to be paying intense attention, but not to what Mike had been saying. His eyes moved over his person intently, before noticing John.

"John…Watson was it? You had a case that needed solving."

"Ah, yes. Yes I do."

Sherlock stared at John expectantly.

"I'd rather not tell you here. It's a bit of a sensitive topic." A casual chat about murder in public didn't seem like the type of thing to go down well.

Sherlock rolled his eye, "Oh, very well. Follow me."

Without waiting for a response, he span around and walked swiftly from the room. John looked apologetically towards Mike, hurriedly trying to gather his things.

Mike waved him off, "Don't worry. He's always like that."

John said his goodbyes and stumbled from the room, limping quickly in the direction he thought Sherlock went. Damn the man and his long legs.

He ended up in the reception area with no clue as to where Sherlock had gone, looking around frantically. He turned to the receptionist who looked like she was holding in a laugh. John's face coloured a bit.

"Take the hallway to the right, up some stairs and it's the first door that you come to."

John mumbled a thanks and made his way in that direction.

There was nothing special about the door that denoted the room as being different to any of the others John had encountered, but it was slightly ajar and he made his way inside. The room itself was a fairly decent size but the actually space shrunk dramatically with the amount of _things_ that were cluttered about. Mostly it was just stacks upon stacks of books and papers but there were other odd things that caught Johns eye, like a tiara and a couple of long swords and a riding crop. The man himself was seated in one of two arm chairs, placed in the only clear section of the room in front of a comfortable looking settee. The curtains were still drawn, casting a gloom around the room, and a heavy odour of dust and rosin hung in the air.

John ambled over, placing his rucksack and coat next to the sofa. He glanced over to Sherlock who seemed content to sit in the dark, staring out at nothing. John sighed and made his way over the window and pulled open the curtains. It seemed almost like magic the way such a simple action seemed to transform the melancholy study into a comfortable sitting room.

John looked over to Sherlock to gauge his reaction, and found himself at a loss for words. The brief glances he'd caught of the man's face before hardly seem to do him justice in this lighting. It lit up his insightful ice blue eyes, highlighting his tousled dark hair and emphasising his cheekbones. Back in his expensive dark suit and plum shirt he truly was a sight to behold.

John swallowed.

Sherlock blinked a couple of times and turned his head towards John.

"Oh, stop dawdling by the window and take a seat."

John did as directed, sitting on the sofa opposite the armchair.

Sherlock leaned forward, elbows on knees and hands in a prayer position under his chin, his piercing blue eyes trained on John's.

"Now tell me what happened. Leaving no detail out, even if it might seem insignificant."

* * *

As a slight side note, the malleus is a bone in the ear and the malleolus is a bone in the ankle.  
I certainly wouldn't want a doctor who didn't know their ear from their ankle.


	3. Chapter 3

It had been late morning, the sun only just breaching through the cold from the night before. Being a weekday, there weren't too many people about, excepting for tourists, and while it wasn't _quiet_ (if such a word could be used in the same sentence as 'London') there was a definite lull in the sounds of traffic and conversation. John had been walking at slow pace towards a more central area where he would sit in wait for the usual lunch rush.

John typically didn't pay much attention to the people he passed, there being hundreds every day, but the woman he was slowly approaching caught his eye for longer than was usual. She was fairly attractive, wearing tight fitting jeans and a smart looking coat, her ginger hair splayed around her face artfully, but what had drawn his gaze were the many shopping bags gripped in both hands that she had evidently been struggling with.

John had smiled as he'd gone past, debating on whether or not to offer to lend a hand, but decided it probably wouldn't be welcomed and continued on. He'd only gone a few paces before there was the loud sound of groceries falling to the floor. John had whipped his head around, and found the woman, head in hands, looking down at her shopping now rolling down the street. Looking around, most people seemed content to just glance at her and pretend it hadn't happened, continuing on their way. Too British to do much else.

John, feeling much more generous and slightly guilty, walked back to help her out. They'd tried piling the food into the rest of the bags but all this achieved was more of them breaking. John had giggled slightly which turned out to be quite contagious. Soon they were both in stiches laughing, stuffing as much as they could into various pockets, pouches and compartments of their bags and their own person. A couple cans of beans even made its way into the hood of her coat. Arms laden and still in fits of laughter they'd made their way down the street and then up to her flat where she had made them tea and John helped put everything away. She'd thanked him profusely and tried to give him a box of biscuits in return, but John had politely refused and left.

"But then you went back." Sherlock stated, his eyes no longer focused on John but on the scene he'd crafted in his mind.

"Yes. A few hours later I realised I still had a couple of her things in the pocket of my coat and went to give them back." John put his hand in his pocket and felt the packet of paracetamol still there. In his haste he had completely forgotten about it. "I didn't get the chance though." Fuck, he felt awful.

"Hmm. How long, exactly, was the interval between leaving and returning?"

"I'd say around three hours? I can't be much more specific than that."

He hummed again, and waved dismissively at John, "Continue."

John took a deep breath, gathering his nerve. "…she was already dead when I arrived. I'd say just less than three hours, probably happened just after I had left. She was still wearing her coat and the mugs we'd used were still on the side." John felt nausea stir in his stomach. If only he'd stayed just a bit longer. Or noticed the paracetamol sooner. "The door was slightly open and when I called she didn't answer so I walked in. She was lying on her back in the kitchen. Her eyes were still open and it didn't look like there had been a struggle, but her shirt was open and her heart had been cut out." Although John felt a bit sick, speaking of what he'd seen was actually quite therapeutic, an invisible weight raised off his chest.

Sherlock snorted. "How melodramatic." John's anger spiked. "Was her heart missing or placed somewhere in the room?"

"It was next to the body." John clenched his fists, reminding himself he actually needed the berk's help.

"Interesting." He said, leaning back and moving his hands from under his chin to across his lips. "Lestrade was busy with the other case and a different D.I. must have been called in temporarily." He glanced back to John, "You didn't wait for the police to arrive."

"No, I….left rather quickly. When I got back someone else had already called them."

Sherlock seemed to retreat into himself, for a few moments and a hush descended over the room.

"Well this won't do." He said, suddenly leaping up from the chair.

"What?" John watched as Sherlock walked over to one of the desks and began putting on the same coat he'd been wearing the first time they'd 'met'.

"Insufficient data. I need to have a look at the body, and possibly the crime scene photos depending on how incompetent the forensic team were."

He watched as Sherlock strode out the room, without so much as a glance behind him.

John blinked, alone in the room except for the streams of sunlight catching at the swarms of dust Sherlock had stirred up with his exit.

That was that then.

John heaved a sigh and began putting on several of his layers and his own coat, wondering if he'd ever see the strange man again. He was conflicted on whether or not he even wanted to.

He leaned heavily on his cane going down the stairs, his leg protesting greatly. Passing through reception he found the receptionist now occupied in conversation with a smartly dressed elderly lady, both smiling and laughing as they chatted.

The receptionist caught sight of John limping past.

"He's gone." She called out to him.

"Sorry dear, he does tend to do that." The elderly lady added.

John nodded, "Will he be coming back?"

"It didn't look like it." The lady looked sympathetic. "You're free to wait for him if you'd like. No use you dashing about after him."

"Ah, no that's alright. I need to be off anyway." He forced a smile and turned to leave the building, already planning his route back to his usual place.

John hadn't been walking long, only about twenty minutes or so, before there was the screech of a car breaking behind him. A couple of police officers jogged up to him and, placing him into handcuffs, proceeded to arrest him. John didn't resist or argue, there wasn't much point. They took away his rucksack and cane and put him in the back of the police car.

So much for Sherlock 'having this mess sorted in no time'. John leaned his head against the window as the car moved through the streets, closing his eyes. He couldn't blame Sherlock, it was just John's bad luck he'd caught him at the wrong time and had to wait to speak with him.

John had the heart sinking feeling he might have to call Harry to bail him out, or maybe even defend him as a lawyer. He thumped this head against the window. His absolutely fantastic start to the day was turning out to be a brilliant day in general.

The two police officers escorted him into New Scotland Yard, one of them looking at him apologetically.

"Sorry about all this mate, but you pretty much fit this description we've got exactly. And it was quite a serious crime, you understand?"

John smiled tightly. He was probably precisely who they were looking for.

They searched him, seizing the few things he still had in his pockets and took his details, finger prints and a DNA sample. They then escorted him into a small room, clearly set up for questioning. There was a table surrounded by a few chairs with some sort of recorder set up, and an observation mirror ran along a section of one wall.

John sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the table, massaging his temple with his hands. He wasn't particularly frightened of being questioned, he just didn't really trust the legal system to in anyway favour a homeless man and he could feel the stress beginning to beat behind his eyes.

He was left in the room for quite a while, giving John plenty of time to lament on his life thus far and to develop quite a nasty headache, before the door opened revealing a white middle aged detective with greying hair at his temples. He was followed closely behind by a dark skinned women with curly hair who turned and shut the door. The man took a seat in front of him while the lady took one near the edge of the room.

"John Watson, correct?" The man asked, removing a few pieces of paper from the folder he'd brought with him.

John straightened his back and looked the detective in the eye before nodding.

"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade and this is Detective Sergeant Donovan." He reached over and began the recording. "We've brought you in to question you about a few suspicious deaths that have occurred recently which we have reason to believe you may have been involved in."

John felt his heart pick up. A few? What else was he connected to?

"To start with, did you come into contact with a…Miss Alice Livingstone between 11am and 2pm yesterday?"

John nodded. "I met her at around half 10 and left before 11. I went back to her apartment around three hours later." He had an odd sense of déjà vu.

"Why?"

"I helped carry her shopping home after her bags had broken. I realised later I still had a couple of her things in my pockets and went to give them back."

"Quite generous for someone who doesn't have much."

John just shrugged and glanced towards the sergeant who was making notes as he spoke.

"How did you get into the apartment?"

"It was open when I got there. I called out to her but she didn't answer so I walked in and found her…well…"

"But you didn't call the police?"

John hated this. Having to explain to other people why he did these things. "The scene I walked in on was quite…disturbing. For anyone. But especially for an ex-soldier. I had to leave rather quickly. I did come back but someone else had already called so I left."

Lestrade nodded and shuffled through some papers.

"Do you know a George Grove?"

"…no, don't think so. Why?"

"Could I ask if you'd take a look at a photo to see if you recognise him? It's quite explicit, if you don't think you can handle it, that's alright."

John's eyes narrowed. The detective was obviously just being cautious but John felt patronized all the same.

"There's a big difference between a photo and walking into an actual murder scene."

The inspector raised his eyebrows. "Alright."

He passed over the photo and John almost immediately regretted his decision. It showed an elderly man splayed out in the exact same way as Miss Livingstone, chest open and heart laid nearby. John swallowed and tried to concentrate on the man's face instead. A spark of recognition struck him. He did remember him. He'd helped stitch up a gash in his leg once not long ago.

"I…yes, I have seen him before." He said, passing the paper back while trying not to seem too hasty.

He filed the paper back in with the rest. "Mr Grove was…in a similar situation to yourself." John snorted at his avoidance of the word 'homeless'. "We found him a couple weeks ago near the back entrance to a restaurant. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that would you?"

John shook his head vehemently.

"No. I'd only met him once."

"How about-"

"No. I don't know anything about anyone else. The only person I knew anything about was Alice Livingstone. I had no idea there were other murders like hers." John quickly interrupted, holding up his hands.

"What about Bill Murray?"

John froze, his stomach plummeting.

"What?"

The detectives glanced briefly towards each other.

"William Murray. Goes by Bill. You were in contact with him recently?"

"…I was. What's happened to him?"

"You planned to meet with him, is that correct?"

"No, I couldn't in the end. Is he alright?"

The detective's eye brows pulled together and he shook his head.

"Jesus christ." John leaned heavily on the table, his face in his hands. His stomach turned dangerously and his ears rang. It felt like someone had chucked a bucket of ice water over him. Fuck.

The door banged open suddenly, and all the occupants of the room jumped as none other than Sherlock Holmes waltzed into the room and sat down in the last unoccupied chair.

"Oi! You can't be here!" The Sergeant shouted outraged.

Lestrade quickly stopped the recording.

"What in god's name are you playing at now?" Lestrade seemed equally as annoyed. "I gave you access to the crime scene photos what more do you want? You don't usually care to question the suspects."

"I was perfectly content until I heard you were interrogating my client."

"Your client?" Donovan said incredulous. "You side with serial killers now? Not much of a surprise."

John straightened and sent her a glare.

"I did not kill anyone."

"Excluding his time in the army of course, I can imagine that being quite unavoidable."

Lestrade heaved a great sigh. "Okay then how? He fits the description you gave perfectly. Soldier, trained surgeon with extensive medical knowledge. He was even in contact with all of the victims before their murder."

"Well there is this very small matter which you're always harping on about, I believe it's called a 'motive'." Sherlock sneered.

"Not all serial killers need a motive."

"Mr Watson would need an incredibly strong motive to even _consider_ killing in such a way. Not only would his PTSD have prevented him from doing anything that bloody, but he spends a great deal of his time and money helping the homeless people he encounters. You really believe someone who forgoes food in favour of medical supplies would do what you are suggesting? That he lacked enough empathy to not need a motive? Not long back from active service and yet living on the street. Obviously refuses to seek help from his brother and takes great pain to avoid being recognised by anyone he might know. What would he stand to gain from drawing attention to himself like this?"

John's eyes were very wide by the end. Shocked at how much Sherlock knew about him.

"He obviously didn't expect to get caught." Donovan piped in.

"Then why come to me beforehand?"

"Because he made a mistake and needed to cover his tracks."

"You did say that was the only way serial killers get caught." Lestrade added.

Sherlock scoffed. "Each of these killings was highly planned and skilfully carried out, even if the killer had thus far made a mistake, he wouldn't have been idiotic enough to go back to the crime scene and then spend the night in London when he could have been fleeing the city."

"I don't know Sherlock…"

"Oh, this is all highly unlikely and a complete waste of your time. Just let the man go." He huffed impatiently, folding his arms.

There was silence for a while as both the inspector and Sherlock stared each other down. John had been on the other end of Sherlock's gaze, he wasn't sure this would end in the inspector's favour.

"Fine!" Lestrade eventually gave in, throwing up his hands."Fine!" Donovan looked at him as if he'd gone mad. "You've yet to be wrong about a case, but this doesn't mean I believe your argument and we'll still be keeping an eye on him."

Sherlock smirked rising up and stalking out the room.

Donovan shook her head. "Unbelievable."

Lestrade huffed, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his hands through his hair. "Sorry about this Dr. Watson. We'll release you on police bail. Normally we'd ask you to remain at your home address but, well…just don't leave London, understand?"

John nodded numbly. He was frankly swept away by all that had occurred in this tiny room in less than an hour.

* * *

Sherlock to the rescue!

This chapter was finished a lot quicker than I thought it would, mainly because I've been ill the last few days and haven't been turning up to lectures. Really I should have been catching up on work or working on my essay but this was much more fun :)


	4. Chapter 4

After John was given back his things, he made his way outside where he surprisingly found Sherlock Holmes waiting for him, coat collar up, hands in his pockets, brooding in the shadows. John would have laughed at how stereotypical he looked, but he wasn't much in the mood for laughter.

Sherlock looked towards John as he approached.

"I need to have a look at body of the victim. Care to tag along?"

"Why?"

"You're a Doctor. An _army_ Doctor. You have experience with a wide range of injuries and conditions. It would be remiss of me not to consider your opinion."

John thought about this this.

"You just want to keep an eye on me, right?"

Sherlock grinned. "Well it never pays to let leads go without fully realising them."

"I thought you said you were confident I wasn't the murderer?"

Sherlock walked towards the edge of the sidewalk, raising his hand to hail a passing taxi.

"I said it was unlikely. Not impossible. Two very different things. You're obviously connected to all these homicides, the question now is why."

They climbed into the back of the car that pulled up.

About 10 minutes went by before John realised he'd never actually agreed to accompany Sherlock. He shook his head, chastising himself. He wasn't usually so easily lead, but it had been one hell of a day so far.

In a small act of defiance, John broke the silence that had descended between himself and Sherlock.

"Who are you? What exactly do you do?"

Sherlock glanced briefly up at him from his phone. "You've been homeless for a while now. Surely you must have heard the rumours."

"Well yes, but I've got the source of them sitting right here. Much more believable than schizophrenics and compulsive liars."

Sherlock smiled slightly, replacing his phone in his pocket.

"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job."

"' _Consulting_ ' detective? What does that mean?"

"Exactly like what it sounds. When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"And the homeless shelter? That some sort of magnanimous side project?"

Sherlock huffed. "I may funnel money into it but I don't run the place" He wrinkled his nose. "Tedious."

The man was a study in contradictions. Caring, yet callous. Cold yet considerate enough to help get him released from the police. John was finding it difficult to understand him. Was he brilliant, or was he a fake?

"Before…when we met in the alley, and now at Scotland Yard, you mentioned Afghanistan. Also my medical career. How _did_ you know?"

"Just a simple series of deductions. Wasn't difficult."

"Go on then."

"What?"

"Tell me how you worked it out."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Your stance and haircut say military. Both your clothes and you yourself are clean and free of any grime, your hair and nails kept to regulation standards. Habits do break hard, don't they?" He grinned slightly. "Though obviously homeless due to your evident weight loss, indicated by your baggy clothes, and slightly shabby nature of said clothes. There's also your uneven shave due to cheap razor blades and the obviously laden backpack you carry with you.

"There are remnants of a tan on your face and hands which stops at your wrist. You've been abroad a few months ago, but not for sunbathing. Good combat abilities yet you carry a cane and have an obvious limp. Wounded in action. Wounded in action, sun tan – Afghanistan or Iraq."

John's head span. He couldn't believe that so much of his history was on display for anyone to read.

"Now your medical history was slightly more difficult. Any defining characteristic of medical training on your hands has been wiped due to the calluses you've obtained due to firearm usage. Friends with Mike, but Mike's friends are all either from his work or university years, both of which are primarily medically based. There's a card in your pocket with the address of a local doctors' surgery run by one of the GPs who visit the shelter. You are not in need of medical attention and her own phone number is written on the back. There were two doctors working last night yet one registered GP couldn't make it. Job offer then. Clearly you must be a doctor, a good one too to land a job without a stable home.

"You have a good grasp of London's layout and have been homeless for several months, so should theoretically know the best places to collect money. Yet why the weight loss? We already know from our previous encounter and the murder victim that you have vigilante tendencies and are considerate of strangers. A considerable amount of those who are homeless refuse to go to the doctor or do not have the help they need in order to get to one. Someone such as yourself would not allow this to happen without some intervention, therefore you spend the majority of the money you earn on medical supplies and help out those in need."

John's mouth was slightly open, his thoughts still swirling.

"…you…picked my pockets?" was his first response, the most concrete thing his mind could latch on to.

"The police confiscated all your things. I merely had a look to verify your earlier story. Although it would hardly be a challenge if I thought pick-pocketing you necessary."

"I…you mentioned a brother, before?"

"Ah, that was more a shot in the dark. The watch you wear on your wrist is incredibly old, vintage in fact, but covered in scratches and evident signs of misuse. The man beside me would not treat an item of his in such a fashion, so it must have had a previous owner. The small engraving on the side, 'G.W.'. Clearly not your name, yet the 'W'. Watson perhaps? Could be a coincidence but you are unlikely to have purchased such an old watch before the army, and now you often go without food in favour of medical supplies so a vintage watch is clearly not in your budget. Therefore it belongs in your family. No one would pass on a watch in such a bad state to their children, so you did not receive it from your father but an older sibling who inherited it first and gave it to you. Older brother, yet still living on the streets, obviously you refuse to go to him for help. Possibly due to your PTSD… but I feel there could be something more."

There was a ringing silence for a while as John tried to digest all the information while Sherlock picked his finger nails nervously.

"…That…that was brilliant."

Sherlock turned to him sharply.

"Pardon?"

"Brilliant. Simply brilliant."

Sherlock blinked a few times. "You really think so?"

"Of course. I've never seen anything like that."

A faint pink tinge coloured the tips of Sherlock's ears.

"That's not what people usually say." He mumbled, seemly more to his chest than to John.

"What do people usually say?"

"Piss off." He said, a slight grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

John smiled and huffed a laugh. The journey was much more companionable after that.

The taxi took them to Barts, much to John's surprise.

"This brings me back." He commented as they walked through several hallways.

The morgue itself was below ground, through an ill-lit corridor that opened into an unexpectedly large and airy space. It was meticulously clean but the white walls and better lighting did nothing to take away the feeling of gloom that clung to them as soon as they entered.

There was someone dressed in a lab coat, light auburn high tied in a loose pony tail, who stood near the middle of the room sorting surgical tools. Her back was turned towards them as they entered and she evidently didn't hear their approach.

"Molly." Intoned Sherlock when it was clear she hadn't noticed.

The technician, Molly apparently, jumped, dropping the tools in her hand with a loud clang on the metal table and span towards them.

"Oh! Sherlock! I wasn't really expecting you to be back so soon." She smiled cheerfully, a blush colouring her face a dark pink as she spoke.

"Clearly. We need to see the body of a Miss Alice Livingstone. Should have arrived yesterday."

"We?" She questioned, looking away from Sherlock for the first time and blinking a few times when she noticed John. "Oh, sorry! I'm a bit all over the place at the minute."

"That's quite alright, you look busy."

"The body, if you would be so kind." Sherlock said brusquely.

"Right. Yes. I'll wheel it out for you now." She forced a smile and moved towards the metal cold chambers near the end of the room where bodies were usually stored.

"Come to the morgue often then?" John asked to fill the silence.

"Occasionally. The met's forensic team is abysmal and the photos are usually utterly useless. It also provides subjects on which to investigate various post mortem injuries. Crucial information in my line of work."

"I don't think when people donated their bodies to the university they expected to be experimented on by a man in a trench coat."

Sherlock's lips twitched. "It's a greatcoat. Trench coats are generally more waterproof and not nearly as warm."

"Oh, my mistake." John said, raising his hands and grinning.

Molly wheeled the body up to them, it was entirely covered except for the face which was still visible. John recognised the rich brown hair and dark eyes, her eyes frozen open as they had been when John had found her lying on the floor.

John swallowed thickly, shifting his feet.

Sherlock took note of the move, "We could cover her face if that would make it easier."

John shook his head, taking a breath to steady himself.

Molly meanwhile raised her eyebrow at Sherlock.

"I haven't had a chance to do a full autopsy on her yet but I've sent off her blood to be analysed like the others."

"Excellent." Sherlock replied, snapping on a pair of gloves, attention now focussed on the body.

The sheet was removed revealing an equally as grim sight as John remembered. He felt oddly shameful having to see the body naked, despite having seen several similar sights in his university days.

Sherlock moved around the body first, observing the whole of it before focussing in on specific areas. He began with the feet, moving up the legs and observing the area around the vulva. He inspected her hands and arms, before peering at her face for slightly longer. He ignored the hole in her chest entirely, save a brief glance.

Abruptly he stood up straight and moved slightly away from the body.

"Dr Watson, what do you think?"

"About what?"

"The cause of death."

John stared at him for a short while trying to ascertain whether or not he was joking.

"…Her hearts been cut out." He replied after the silence stretched too long.

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper."

John raised his eyebrows and Sherlock huffed irritated.

"Come on! What's wrong with the body? What's missing?"

John shuffled over, looking down at the empty space in her ribcage. He quickly shook himself and forcibly looked elsewhere. He examined her hands, neck and face but didn't find anything noteworthy.

"…the wound in her chest is neat, precise, and there's no sign of a struggle."

"Which means?"

"She was cut open post mortem."

"Correct."

"But wait, then how'd she die?"

"You're the doctor, you tell me."

John looked down at her face again. There was no overt sign of poisoning in the colour of her skin and there wasn't any vomit at the scene. There were no marks around her neck to suggest strangulation yet her eyes were bloodshot and there was very faint bruising around her mouth and nose which would suggest she died due to asphyxiation.

"…I would say suffocation, the killer covering her mouth and nose, but…"

"But what?"

"There's no sign of a struggle. No one would just stand there and let someone suffocate them to death."

"Well done, Dr Watson. You've accomplished what a whole team of forensic personal could not."

"She's just like the others, then." Molly commented, looking forlornly at the body.

"Quite. I'll take a blood sample with me to analyse and confirm."

"Wait, so she was, what, drugged? And then suffocated?" John looked baffled.

Sherlock gave a sharp nod. "The killer uses a common, quick acting anaesthetic, midazolam – you should be familiar with it, before asphyxiating his victims and then carving out their hearts. Quite clever really. The drug is virtually untraceable due to its common usage and stops the victims from struggling or raising alarm which allows him to spend as long as he likes taking out their heart. The dug lowers blood pressure, and killing them after administering it, but before cutting their chest open, minimizes arterial blood spray, ensuring his clothes and person stay clean and he is able to leave the scene without arousing suspicion or leaving much evidence."

Well the murder was definitely premeditated, that's for sure.

"What sort of person would do this?" John wondered aloud.

"Someone with medical knowledge, presumably a surgeon as evidenced by the precise nature in which the heart was removed. Most likely a solider indicated by the strength needed to catch the bodies and lay them down, the military style tread, and also the way the military identification tags of one of the victims was defaced. Potentially dismissed in some way from the army, potentially hostile towards soldiers. More data is needed for any firm conclusions."

John's mouth ran dry.

"So someone like me then?" He asked in a small voice.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "No, clearly _not_ someone like you. Did you not pay attention to my explanation in front of Lestrade? I know people often think I do, but I don't actually make things up."

"Right. Right, yeah. Sorry." He reached out, rubbing his hand which had begun to shake.

There was silence for a short while and Molly cleared her throat.

"You wanted a blood sample?"

"Yes. Then we'll leave you to do…whatever it is you do." Sherlock waved dismissively.

Molly returned swiftly with a sample she had already taken, and soon Sherlock and John found themselves walking outside, John's limp noticeably worse.

"Where're we heading now then?" John asked, hoping it was somewhere nearby.

"Back to the shelter to get some food. Your stomach was quite insistent on the cab ride over."

Johns face flushed slightly.

"We've just been to a morgue."

Sherlock turned towards him, a grin tugging at his mouth.

"Chinese?"

John laughed. It was odd what seemed normal in the detective's company

* * *

Phew, Sherlock was in top form this chapter. And needless to say my web history is now a bit suspect...

Turns out a lot of sites that give details on things to look out for post mortem include actual pictures of dead bodies in various states of dissection. Not entirely surprising, but I've lost my appetite for quite a while.

Please let me know if I've massively messed up or missed something!


End file.
